A Very Merry Maybe

Tilly

I never understood the logic behind Christmas in July until now. Before, it just seemed weird. Like, who decided flip-flops and Santa hats belong in the same month? December will have its moment. Let July shine with its parades, fireworks displays, and charred, sticky marshmallows.

     But tonight feels so much like, well, Christmas. I can almost hear Michael Bublé crooning upon the folds of the summer breeze. You know that tremor of anticipation that hits the second your eyes blink open on Christmas morning? Yeah, that very sensation is coursing through me.

     I check my phone, ensuring for the umpteenth time that the ringer’s on and the volume’s amped to max. I will not miss this call. Nick, my realtor, promised I’d know by this evening whether the sale went through. Buying the old dentist’s office on Silver Creek’s Main Street and converting it to a dance studio is like a million dreams stuffed into one phone call.

     These past few years, I’ve been the queen of side hustles, bouncing from place to place to keep my bills paid and my fridge moderately stocked. Just yesterday, an old friend called with a job offer. She owns a dance studio in Cincinnati, and one of her instructors, who’s expecting twins, got placed on bed rest early. In short, she needs me. It’s a great opportunity, but one, I’d have to leave Silver Creek. Two, I’d be the stand-in. And I’m so tired of being the stand-in.

     Temporary positions never used to bother me. I was the Where’s Waldo? of Silver Creek. One day I’d be spotted as the barista at the local coffee shop, and the following week I’d be the lady passing out air fresheners at the touch-free car wash. I’ve also worked as a waitress, dog walker, house sitter, nanny, event decorator, and one very fun gig as a princess-for-hire for little girls’ birthday parties. In that particular role, I put all my old pageant gowns to good use, but I never made a convincing Cinderella. No matter how much I wrestled with it, the blond wig wouldn’t fit right over my thick brown hair.

     All those positions were relatively simple, but each came with an expiration date. And none of those jobs were ever my thing. Not like dance.

     Is it wrong to want my name on a studio door and not on a stack of W-2s? At twenty-seven years old, I feel like I shouldn’t still be living in “for now” mode. I want stability. 

     That’s why this building is so much more than a physical address along one of Ohio’s oldest Main Streets. It’s something to finally call mine. Something permanent. 

     The journey wasn’t without some hiccups—mostly figuring out how I’d afford a 2,500-square-foot building with a credit score so low, so beneath the bar for average that it could win every limbo contest. No bank or lender would consider me for a loan. Then my brother, Mitch, told me about a program called Revive Small-Town America, which offers down payment assistance to individuals and businesses buying property on a qualifying town’s main street. Silver Creek was on the target list, and I, Matilda Davies, the girl who barely passed high school, got pre-approved for a loan.

     With the biggest hurdle cleared, I feel unstoppable. Now if only Nick would call with the great news. 

     I swat at a gnat, or maybe a mosquito. I’m not certain because I’m zoned in on my stubbornly silent phone. With a sigh, I slide my phone back into my shorts pocket and glance at the gear scattered across the community park lawn, which served today as my makeshift dance studio.

     Three years ago, the local school district contracted me to coordinate and teach its yearly cheer camps. I choreograph dance routines from middle school on up. I’m also expected to help fine-tune toe touches and pike jumps. It was all fun and games until I got overzealous in my examples and nearly kicked the mascot. So I quickly redirected the almost-ER moment into an opportunity to emphasize jump safety, as if it were written on the schedule. The older teens weren’t buying it. Neither was the mascot. But overall, things turned out well.

     Opportunities like this have been what’s kept me going—making a difference through dance. Now I’m so close to securing my own studio that I can nearly taste it, and it kind of reminds me of peppermint mocha.

     I snag the Bluetooth speakers from the grass and tuck them into a duffel bag. I still need to toss everything into my car, then race to my apartment to get ready for this evening’s date.

     Cue the second reason why I’m twitchy with excitement. Today’s my first anniversary with my boyfriend, Fletcher Thomas. He promised to take me to my favorite spots. Little does he know my favorite spot is next to him. He’s sort of the golden boy of Silver Creek. His family owns a successful law firm, which Fletcher mostly oversees. He’s on the board of pretty much every local charity and in the sights of nearly every single woman in a thirty-mile radius. I never thought I’d have a chance with him. He, Mr. Phi Beta Kappa, and I, Miss Couldn’t Pass the College Entrance Exam.

If I’m quick, I’ll have just enough time to take a fast shower, apply make-up, and slip into the new dress I’d splurged on. 

     “Hey there.” A deep, familiar voice speaks from behind me.

     Fletcher.

     My heart jumps as I take him in. “You’re supposed to pick me up at my apartment.” I inwardly panic. I have sweat spots in places I shouldn’t. The knobs of my knees are green from kneeling in the grass. My hair lost a fight with humidity, making my ponytail a giant poof. Above all, I’m pretty sure I reek.

     Of all the times for Fletcher to see me at my worst, why on our anniversary? I summon my pageant smile, the one that can withstand a bad spray tan, a hostile judging panel, and perhaps a natural disaster or two.

     His hands slip around my waist, and he tugs me to him. “I know I’m early.” He drops a kiss on my lips and buries his face in the crook of my neck. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”

     “Couldn’t wait to see me a mess? I didn’t get ready yet.” The sweat between my thighs is moonlighting as superglue, so I widen my stance a little. Also, I’m fairly certain I have a Gatorade stain somewhere on me.

     “You’re always beautiful,” he murmurs in my ear. “I needed to see you,” he repeats, but this time something’s off.

     I crane my neck to look into his handsome face. “Everything okay?”

     He blinks and glances away, but that doesn’t stop his hands from tightening around me, holding me closer. “I’ve been waiting to talk to you all day. It’s really … important.” He releases me and nods at the path leading around the park. “Take a walk with me?”

     “I can’t leave my stuff.” I point at the zipped duffels. “I didn’t get a chance to put it in my car.”

     “I’ll grab it.” He gently lifts my things and heads to my car, parked a short distance down the street.

     From where I stand, I pop the trunk with the key fob while watching his tall form. Something’s definitely up. He’s acting nervous, and Fletcher Thomas always oozes confidence. He also said he needs to talk. On a topic that’s important. No, really important. I let this information sink in. Then I pair said info with a critical fact. It’s our first anniversary. Wait. He’s not going to … is he?

     My heart skips for another reason altogether. Fletcher loads the gear into my trunk and does that hot man-jog back to me. His tie knot is loose, and his dark blond hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it.

     “All set.” He takes my hand and tugs me to the sidewalk.

     Now that the sun has been down for about forty minutes, the sky is turning dark. Lightning bugs flash. Crickets chirp. Ah, gotta love summer nights. Though I’d love it so much more if my sweaty thighs weren’t making this weird suction sound every time they brush together. I sort of waddle-walk, which seems to help.

     His hand squeezes mine. He opens his mouth to say something, then stops.

     “What is it?”

     He slightly shakes his head. “I’ve never been in this position before. I’m trying to make sure I say it right.”

     Never been in this position? My pulse pounds. Before we got together, Fletcher was a total serial dater. The timeline of our relationship goes back longer than our first actual date. We began as friends and would be each other’s plus-one when needed. He’d have me on his arm at a benefit dinner. I’d drag him along to a cousin’s wedding. Things like that. It wasn’t until another guy asked me out that Fletcher turned serious.

     It went like this:

     “Jackson Breyer asked me to go to the fireworks with him,” I told Fletcher last summer.

     His brow darkened. “What did you tell him?”

     I shrugged. “The truth. That I’ll be visiting my mom in Florida for the Fourth.” She’d just moved South to care for my grandparents, and I missed her so much. 

     Fletcher’s scowl only deepened, and I tried, oh how I tried, not to relish in his disappointment over my casual answer. 

     I stepped closer and said, “Then I told him I wasn’t interested.”

     Fletcher tilted his head, his ice-blue eyes peering at me with a sudden intensity. “Any chance you’re interested in someone else?”

     “Funny. That’s exactly what Jackson asked.” I was stringing Fletcher along, and he knew it because his hands clasped my waist.

     He tugged me to him. “And you said?”

     “I told Jackson that I’m definitely interested in another guy, but he’s been super slow to make his move.” And by super slow, I meant that Fletcher and I had hung out constantly these past six months, and he had yet to budge us out of the friend zone.

     “Hmm. Maybe it’s time the man did something about that.”

     I blinked up at him, waiting.

     He took my hand in his and pressed a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “Tilly, when you return from Florida, will you go out on a date with me?”

     “Define date.”

     His smile built slowly. “I’ll pick you up at your apartment. Take you to your favorite restaurant. I’ll open all doors for you, like the gentleman I am. I’ll hold your hand throughout the evening. I’m going to do everything I can to let all of Silver Creek know you’re taken.”

     And he did.  

     That’s how we became an official couple. It might’ve been my imagination, but I could’ve sworn there was an uptick in women wearing black that summer. Anyway, that conversation changed the nature of the relationship. It’s ironic because that specific chat took place … oh my gosh … right here. It was at the park, on this very spot, where Fletcher and I decided to take our relationship to the next level. And here we are again.

     My chest squeezes. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. Because now I know. Fletcher didn’t meet me early on impulse. This was all planned.

     I’m ninety-five percent certain he’s going to propose. Why else pick this spot? Why else say he has something important to talk about? I’m trying not to freak out, but then I hear it. 

     A distinct buzzing noise.

     I lift my gaze to the darkened sky in the direction of the sound. Either apocalyptic cicadas are swarming the park, or those are drones. Thankfully, it’s the latter. 

     Fletcher stops and glances up as well.

     The drones are zipping about, as if getting into formation. Then they light up, creating two very specific words.

     “MARRY ME?” I read aloud, and tears fill my eyes. “Fletcher!” Is this really happening? Could it be true that I could score the love of my life and my dream dance studio in a single evening? This will go down as the day of ALL days in the book of Matilda Davies.

     I launch myself at Fletcher. “Yes!” I hold onto his neck as if there were a risk I’d float away on a cloud of happiness. I squeeze my eyes shut. Years of joy stretch before me. It’s slow dancing in the kitchen, sharing blankets on chilly nights, tiny snow boots drying over the heat vents.

     Then I realize … Fletcher’s not hugging me.

     He doesn’t move at all.

     I pull back and tease, “Are you stunned that I’d say yes?”

     He does an awkward, double pat on my shoulder and disentangles from my barnacle embrace. “Tilly … that’s not … I mean, we’re not …”

     A feminine squeal echoes from across the way. My gaze zips to the right. In the dim evening, I spot lanterns set around the gazebo. A soft glow outlines a man on one knee before a woman in a flowy dress.

     To be clear, Fletcher is not on one knee, and he does not have a ring. Those are two big parts of a conventional proposal that I completely overlooked. My boyfriend isn’t proposing to me. Rather, he looks like he’s about to morph into a stone statue, considering his locked jaw and tall, rigid body.

     I feel so stupid. “That … wasn’t for me.” My lower lip quivers.

     Fletcher reaches for me, but I stagger back a step. I can’t face him. I acted like the biggest idiot.

     My phone rings in my pocket. My call. THE call. My heart can hardly scrape a healthy thud because it is nearly flatlined. But I have to take this. Maybe I can salvage one dream.

     I answer, “Hey, Nick.” 

     “Tilly.” My realtor greets me. “I heard back from the seller.”

     “And?”

     A long beat. “The contract fell through.”

     “What? Why?” A wave of dizziness makes me stumble. 

     Fletcher’s there. His hand wraps around my elbow. 

     I shake him off and step away. “What happened? I thought it was a sure thing.”

     “Me too,” Nick says. “Everything looked good. But then, their lawyer intervened and stopped the sale. Well, actually, the sale went to another buyer. We lost it.”

     “Why?” I feel that’s all I’m asking, but it’s the only question ricocheting through my brain. Why did the sale fall through? Why did Fletcher take me on a walk through the park if not to propose? Just WHY?

     Nick exhales loudly. “I don’t know. They aren’t required to say. I’m sorry, Tilly. I know you had your hopes set on this one.”

     This was my only shot. Nick knows not to ask me if I’m interested in other locations because I don’t have a fallback strategy. No plan B. No nothing. I don’t have funding for any other place. Just that one. 

     And it’s gone.

     I can hardly breathe. I feel like the sky’s crashing down on me. A stupid sky full of lighted drones meant for someone else. Now my building’s going to another. And if it wasn’t for some cruel lawyer, I’d have … wait. Nick said their lawyer—not their realtor—intervened. “Who’s their lawyer?”

     “Fletcher Thomas.”

     My hand spasms. My phone falls to the ground. 

     No. That can’t be right. My gaze cuts to the man standing a touch away. Nick didn’t even have to say the name because Fletcher’s guilty expression reveals everything. “You?”

     “Tilly, I—”

     “You stopped the sale.” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. “You knew how much this meant to me.” The drone lights shut off, and I huff a bitter laugh. “To think I believed you were proposing. No, you were too busy killing my dreams to plan anything else.” Then it hits me. “This.” I grab my phone from the grass. Nick hung up, but the conversation’s over anyway. Everything’s over. “This is what you were going to tell me, wasn’t it?”

     “I’m sorry.”

     I blink and wait for him to expound, to detail why he thinks it’s okay to betray his girlfriend. But Fletcher’s not offering anything more than a pained stare. “That’s it? Did you realize you were crushing my soul, or was it just another day at the office for you?” 

     It could be a trick of the twilight, but his blue eyes look stormy, troubled. “I never meant to hurt you.”

     “You also never told me the sellers were your clients.” I mean, I knew who their realtor was but was completely unaware they roped a lawyer (Fletcher!) into this deal. “Property is your specialty,” I say this more to myself than to the traitor. “So I can’t believe this is just some huge mistake.”

     “It’s not.”

     My vision blurs at the edges, but I refuse to cry.

     “Tilly.” He steps toward me. 

     “Don’t.” I flash my palm, nearly skimming his chest. “You need to explain.”

     His expression is crestfallen, as if he’s the one suffering. “I can’t.”

     “You block me from buying this building, and you have nothing to say? Just nonchalantly mutter that you can’t.”

     “Do I look nonchalant?”

     “No, you look like someone who I thought I could spend … never mind. Forget it. If you have nothing to say, then the same goes for me.”

     “It’s client confidentiality.”

     “How convenient.”

     “It’s not an excuse. It’s my ethical obligation.” His ragged exhale cuts the air between us. “I’m bound to silence on anything regarding their representation. I know it looks terrible—”

     “Stop. Just stop.” I press a finger to my temple, if only to tame the intense buzzing in my skull. “This isn’t a courtroom. You can’t talk your way out of this.” My hand withers to my side. “I’m not a judge. I was your girlfriend.”

     He goes still. “Was?”

     “Good luck with your career, Fletcher. It’s obvious you love it more than anything.”

     More than me.

     I allow myself one last glimpse of his devastated face, then walk away.